Chapter 2 • The Beauty of Wanthong
When Friendship Turns to Desire, and Love Tests the Hearts of Men
Seasons ripened, and Suphanburi gleamed brighter with every harvest. The children of the town had become young men and women, and with them bloomed the first ache of longing. Among them, none shone more brightly than Wanthong—the daughter of a modest trader whose grace made the world seem to pause.
Her laughter was music in the morning, her steps light as the petals that floated upon the river. When she walked through the market carrying a basket of jasmine, even the old monks smiled. Her beauty was not born of jewels or powder, but of kindness that seemed to glow from within. She spoke softly, yet her words lingered in the mind like the scent of rain on earth.
Khun Chang, now heir to his father’s wealth, saw her often at the temple fairs. Each glimpse struck him like sunlight through silk. Though he was heavyset and bald, his longing made him bold. He sent gifts—golden bracelets, silk scarves, perfumes brought from the capital—but she accepted none. Her mother only smiled, saying gently, “A heart cannot be bought.” The refusal burned him like fire under cool skin.
Phlai Ngam, meanwhile, had begun to study the arts of war. His teachers praised his skill with the sword and the horse. Yet whenever he returned to the village, his courage melted into quiet shyness before Wanthong. He would stand by the well, pretending to draw water, only to catch a glimpse of her reflection in the pail. She would laugh, sensing his presence, though she said nothing.
At the temple festival that marked the new moon, destiny wove its first snare. Wanthong lit a candle for her ancestors. The wind threatened to snuff it out, but a hand shielded the flame—Phlai Ngam’s hand. Their eyes met in the glow, and for a moment the world seemed to hold its breath. She whispered, “Thank you.” He could only nod. From that fragile spark, love was born—quiet, secret, and pure.
Khun Chang saw them together. Jealousy, green as the paddy fields, took root in his heart. That night he could not sleep. He imagined Wanthong’s laughter beside another man, and rage coiled through him like a serpent. “If I cannot have her,” he muttered, “no one will.” His envy became obsession, his affection a cage made of gold.
Weeks passed. The rains returned, and with them came news from the capital: the king called for young men of skill to serve in Ayutthaya’s army. Phlai Ngam’s spirit leapt. He saw in it a chance to earn honor and a future worthy of Wanthong. He bade farewell to his mother, swearing he would return not as a peasant but as a man of rank. Wanthong wept in silence as he left, her tears falling into the river like offerings.
Khun Chang watched his rival ride away beneath the crimson dawn. In Phlai Ngam’s absence, he courted Wanthong’s mother with gifts, flattering her pride and easing her debts. “My wealth can give your daughter comfort,” he said. The older woman, wearied by years of poverty, began to waver. “A good husband must provide,” she murmured. Wanthong, torn between duty and love, found herself trapped by the walls of her own home.
In Ayutthaya, Phlai Ngam’s name spread quickly. He fought bravely under the banner of the royal guard, his sword swift, his loyalty unquestioned. The generals called him Khun Phaen—the Lord of Victory. His fame reached even the quiet streets of Suphanburi, carried by merchants and monks. Each story made Wanthong’s heart swell with pride—and made Khun Chang’s jealousy burn deeper.
One evening, as thunder rolled across the fields, Khun Chang came to Wanthong’s house with his mother. “Phlai Ngam may never return,” the elder woman warned. “War devours even heroes. Do you wish to waste your youth waiting for a ghost?” Wanthong’s heart trembled. Her love and her duty warred within her breast. In the end, her silence was taken as consent.
On a quiet morning, the marriage of Wanthong and Khun Chang was announced. Drums sounded through the town; silk banners waved above the gates. Yet behind the bridal veil, her eyes were dry, her smile carved by obedience. As she bowed before the elders, she whispered within herself, “Forgive me, Khun Phaen. I could not defy the world.”
That same night, far away on the frontier, Khun Phaen dreamed of a golden house and a weeping bride. The wind carried her name across the plains. He awoke with a cry, his heart pierced by an ache he could not name. The wheel of karma had turned again, and its shadow fell upon all three souls.
In Suphanburi, the moon hung low over the rooftops. Wanthong sat by the window of her new home, listening to the river murmur beyond the walls. The world called her blessed, yet she felt the weight of a thousand unseen chains. Outside, Khun Chang slept, content in his triumph, unaware that love cannot be owned—only tested. And somewhere beyond the horizon, Khun Phaen rode toward destiny, guided by the echo of a name he would never forget.
Next → Chapter 3 — The Battle for Love and Honour
Khun Phaen returns from war to find betrayal at home. The rivalry that began in childhood becomes a storm that will shake the kingdom.